Senselessness
by Lost-Ink
Summary: It is twelve minutes past four on the fifteenth of August and all Hermione knows is the sound of the clock and the endlessness of her own thoughts. One-shot, HrR with hints of DG and HL


_Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or places in this piece. Actually, I don't own anything but the piece itself. Of course, we all know deep down that JKR would never sue us, she's too lovely and understanding! Anyway, I also reference Blake, Shakespeare and Artaud in this piece. Their stuff doesn't belong to me either._

_A/N: This is a one-shot. Comments and criticism are encouraged. I tried to make this a kind of stylised piece, kind of comedic, kind of odd and kind of suspenseful. Let me know how good a job I did, and if I didn't do that, how I could in the future! Thanks!_

**Senselessness**

It's almost as though I have no sense of time and space. I do of course; I know very well that it's twelve minutes past four on the fifteenth of August and that I'm lying on the floor of my friends room. But still, I feel like time is moving slower than usual but faster than it should. It's odd. It's this feeling of endlessness I sometimes get when I'm alone during summer. I never get it during term time. In term time there is always something around the corner, always something to plan. There's always something to achieve. But now, at thirteen minutes past four on the fifteenth of August, there is just me. Me and Ginny's snores and a lack of comprehension for anything.

I hate it. I hate hearing the clock on the wall tick and tock and ticking and tocking and never ceasing for a moment so that I'm not reminded of the endlessness of time and space and my own thoughts.

Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Sleep is healthy. You'll never achieve if you don't sleep well. Maybe so, but do I really want to achieve? Of course I do. Without dreams a person is nothing.

I wonder what Dobby is doing right now. How many of my ludicrous hats and socks is he wearing on order to save the other House Elves from justice?

This is pointless.

Go to sleep. Go to sleep.

If theatre is the double of life, life is the double of true theatre.

Interesting…I never really did get that Artaud bloke though, I much prefer Shakespeare. I wonder what Shakespeare would have made of Hogwarts? I wonder what he would have made of me and Ron and Harry and Luna and Ginny and Malfoy…well, I know what he would have made of Malfoy and Ginny. That was hardly a happy ending, no, I'll stop with the Shakespeare now.

Maybe I am Desdemona and Ron is Othello and…no, that wouldn't work out very well either.

Needless to say, it is now fourteen minutes past four on the fifteenth of August and all I know is the futility of my own thoughts.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven-

If Ron were an Animagus, I wonder what he'd be? I hope it would be something that would compliment whatever animal I would be.

I must send an owl to Rita Skeeter to threaten her some more. Saying that the bass player in the Weird Sisters has an asymmetrical face is still mean. Less mean than she used to be, but mean all the same.

Tyger tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? Dum de dum de, dum de dum, de dum de dum de dum de, dum de dum de dum de dum de dum de dum de dum de dum.

Well I suppose I should probably concentrate on trying to end this madness by getting some sleep.

Wait. What was that?

The wind in the trees outside and a creak on a stair.

I suddenly am very aware of my own breathing. Why is it so inexplicably loud?

Another creak.

What's happening? I have been awake _ages_ and I didn't hear anyone go downstairs. Why are the creaks coming up?

My heart is pounding in my chest. It is, also, inexplicably loud. I'm surprised I haven't woken Ginny.

More creaking. Closer now.

On the landing.

At the door.

The handle turning.

A head of tousled red hair on a tall and thin boy who is covered in freckles and just happens to be my boyfriend.

'Ron!' I find myself hissing, 'What are you doing here?'

'I came to kiss you,' he says, 'but I can go if you want.'

'Come here.'

I'm smiling. It is sixteen minutes past four on the fifteenth of August and I, Hermione Jane Granger, am smiling. Why?

Because nothing is endless and everything is endless. Nothing is ever truly futile.

Someone will always save you from your own thoughts if you love them enough to think of them instead of you. Someone will always catch you when you fall if you follow them around with a mattress underneath them in return.


End file.
